Welcome to the Tea Party, Sherlock Holmes
by RandomDancingMatryoshka
Summary: When Moriarty returns with a new game for Sherlock, John begins to fall apart. Can Sherlock fix him, win the game and find true love before it's too late?  No spoilers for season 2, since I haven't watched it yet :D
1. Chapter 1

__Hello there :D

his is my first (proper) Sherlock fic, so please feel free to leave lots of concrit ^.^

I have no beta and it is not brit-pricked, so I apologise in advance for any errors.

Finally, I have **not** seen season 2 (it hasn't screened in Australia yet), so I also apologise for any errors that may be present because of this.

Enjoy~

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><p><em>'Sherlock Holmes, as brilliant as he is, can't deny that he spends every waking hour fearing that John might leave him. That he might meet some lovely girl one day, and just run off to get married, leaving him all alone. Sherlock had previously assumed that this fear was merely due to the fact that John was an excellent colleague, nothing more.'<em>

He has since learnt that such assumptions are stupid and usually false.

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><p>Sherlock had been doubting the correct-ness of his assumption for a while now, but all that doubt certainly came to a head when he, the cold heartless bastard, the freak, took a teary-eyed John Watson into his arms, and told him everything was going to be alright, even if he didn't quite believe it himself.<p>

It was about 7.30 in the morning when John woke to a certain consulting detective poking his face.

'Bloody hell Sherlock! It's 7.30. Don't you ever sleep?' John swatted away Sherlock's hand and sat up.

'I've told you before, I don't sleep, not when there's work to be done.'

'I would really appreciate if you just knocked on the door or something, it would be much more…tolerable than you poking my face with those ridiculously bony fingers of yours.' Sherlock poked his tongue out at John, earning him a grunt as John finally mustered the energy to get out of bed. 'What is it this time?'

'Murder, I should think.' Sherlock was now perched on the end of John's bed, fiddling with his phone, as usual.

'Lestrade didn't tell you?'

'No. He just said that I better come here straight away. It's a bit of a bugger though, all the way in bloody Tring'

'Tring?'

'"A small market town and also a civil parish in the Chiltern Hills in Hertfordshire, England. Situated 30 miles north-west of London." Straight from Wikipedia. '

'Right, Tring, lovely. I'm just going to take a shower, ok?'

'I'll be downstairs. Don't be too long.'

20 minutes later, John Watson emerged from his shower, to find Sherlock pacing impatiently by the door.

'Sherlock?'

'Ah. John. I see you're ready at last.' Sherlock stopped pacing and handed John his coat.

'If you were that desperate, you could've gone by yourself.'

'I prefer to wait for my...partner.'

'Partner?' John cocked an eyebrow.

'You dislike the term?'

'No, it just...' He trailed off.

'Just what?'

'Makes us sound like a couple.'

'Oh.' Sherlock's face fell. 'I shall no longer use it then.'

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><p>The 45 minute long cab journey passed almost completely in silence. Sherlock just stared out the window, whilst John wondered about what Sherlock had said earlier. John had tried to make some simple conversation, in an attempt to make up for earlier, but Sherlock was clearly disinterested, so he gave up and went back to thinking.<p>

Many things about Sherlock puzzled John, but this one was one of the most so. As soon as John mentioned a(how could one put this?)…dislike of being labelled as a couple, the detective's face had fallen, and he had been silent ever since. He began to wonder if maybe Sherlock wanted more from their friendship, but John quickly dismissed that thought (or was it a fantasy?). Sherlock Holmes was married to his work. He was most certainly 'off the market'.

'Yes.' John told himself as they stepped out of the cab an onto the dewy grass, 'Sherlock most certainly does _not_ fancy me. Not in a million years.'

Not that John would mind if he did, of course.

The pair exited the taxi, and while John paid the fare, Sherlock took in the surroundings. They were on a small village green, and a large banner, bearing the words 'WELCOME TO TRING FAIR' greeted them. Before Sherlock had a better chance to snoop around, Lestrade came striding up to him and John, who had come to stand next to Sherlock after paying the cabbie.

'Let's walk and talk, shall we?' Lestrade got straight to the point. This was unusual, not even a hello or anything. Sherlock suddenly realised that this case might be slightly more disturbing than he first realised.

'So, um, what's the situation, Greg?' Even John seemed to notice Lestrade's agitated manner.

'Murder. Like something out of a horror film. I was so convinced that nothing like it would happen in real life that I got Anderson to check if the blood was real or not.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. It should have been obvious on first glance if the blood was real or not. What an amateur

The trio continued to walk in silence until they reached a small tent, and Lestrade ushered them in. John was about to go in first, but Sherlock pushed ahead of him, feeling quite protective.

'John...you may not want to see this.' Sherlock's voice sounded genuinely distressed. In fact, he was. Sherlock had seen how badly the pool incident had affected John. The last thing he wanted was a repeat.

'Sherlock, I've been in wars. I think I can handle a little bit of...' John's voice trailed off as he took in the scene. It wasn't so much the gore that scared him, to be honest. The decapitated head wearing the creepy mask, the comically oversized teacup filled with blood, all of that was nothing compared to the message on the floor:

**_Welcome Sherlock, welcome to the tea party._**

**_-Moriarty_**

Those words took a moment to sink in. Once they did, John couldn't help tearing up. In fact, he was surprised that he didn't completely burst into tears. All those long nights he spent, sitting in the hospital, wondering if Sherlock was going to make it. All those nightmares, that Moriarty somehow wasn't dead, that he would come back and finish Sherlock off, once and for all.

When Sherlock stood there, and saw John cry, it was one of the most scary things he had ever seen. These tears were not the happy tears he saw John cry when he had woken up in the hospital, no, these tears were tears of fear, of pain.

Although he wasn't too good with emotions, even Sherlock knew that right now, John needed a hug. So that's exactly what John got.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around the shorter man, held him close and let him bury his face into the crook of his neck. Sherlock pressed his face into John's short blond hair and they stayed like that for a while. Eventually, Sherlock moved his face so that his chin was resting on the top of John's head, and said, ever so softly, 'John, I promise you, this time I won't let him hurt me. I won't mess around, I wont play his games. I won't let him hurt...I won't let him hurt you.I promise. Besides, I'd be lost without my wonderful blogger, wouldn't I?'

John had once thought that Moriarty died in the blast, that him and Sherlock were safe and they could be happy, dysfunctional flatmates, living in their twisted version of domesticity, he had assumed that Moriarty's game, the great game, was over, and that everything had gone back to normal and that it would always be that way.

It was now abundantly clear that it wasn't.

Especially since his already-massive crush on Sherlock Holmes had just gotten a tiny bit bigger.

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><p>Ehehe. Thanks for reading.<p>

Please review!

If you do, you can have a cookie~~~ (^.^)O


	2. Chapter 2: Tea in the Park

'Sherlock, please.' John's voice was hoarse, 'I can't bear to lose you again.'

'I promise I'll get this over with as soon as possible.'

'But, after what happened last time...' His voice trailed off.

'No. People will die, John. If I don't do this, Moriarty will keep killing just to spite me.'

'People will die if you do, Sherlock.' Lestrade entered the tent to voice his concerns, 'You remember last time. The old woman, dead. The other's, mentally scarred for life.'

'Lestrade, I appreciate your concern, but really. This is my decision to make.'

'No Sherlock! It is _not_ your decision. This is a police matter, I bend the rules for you to be here, I can have you arrested whenever I please.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John spoke next, 'You two, please. Get along, we can't afford you two falling out right now. But really Sherlock, you must take other people into consideration. This isn't just about you, like Greg said, people can and will get hurt.'

'You don't understand! Use your brain for once! Moriarty will, without a doubt, kill others! It is inevitable that people will die. Surely it is best to try and catch him, so those lives are not wasted. This is such a good opportunity!'

'You selfish bastard, all you think about is your ego! You only want to solve this case to avert boredom. When will you learn to care about others, you selfish, sociopathic bastard!' John was fuming.

Lestrade was clearly shocked by John's outburst. Nobody had ever seen him quite that angry before.

Sherlock looked genuinely hurt, 'John, please...I didn't mean it in that way, I...' John began to walk out of the tent, 'No...John...please don't, please don't leave...' Sherlock's voice trailed off; he had already left.

'I'll...give you a moment.' Lestrade left too, leaving Sherlock alone.

As soon as John saw Sherlock's face, he started to regret what he had said. It was just like before, when he had told Sherlock that he didn't want people mistaking them for a couple, except worse. He knew he couldn't go back to the crime scene, so he decided to grab some lunch. He was actually quite hungry, since he had skipped breakfast in the rush to get here. Walking through the town centre, John stopped into a M&S to grab a sandwich and a can of coke. He was feeling bloody dreadful after upsetting Sherlock so badly, perhaps ruining their friendship for good.

John walked into a small park and sat down at a bench, eating his sandwiches and drinking his coke. All he could think about was Sherlock. He knew, deep down that he didn't really care too much about the many people who could die as a result of the game. Well, he did care, but he was much more concerned about Sherlock. Ever since the pool, ever since he pushed Sherlock into the water, all those long, sleepless nights by his hospital bed, it was like a living hell. He didn't want a repeat of that.

As soon as he finished his meal, John made the decision to return to the crime scene and tell Sherlock he was sorry. _'Even if he's angry with me, I can't bare to lose him, not again. I don't want him to think our friendship is ruined. Not now, not when he needs me the most.'_

He never made it back to the fairground.

Sherlock Holmes was not the kind of person to be easily offended. He never seemed to give a shit when Donovan called him 'freak' or people told him to 'piss off', but when John called him a sociopathic bastard, the words hurt more than they should've. The one person who put up with him, the one person who cared about him, the one person he..._loved? No, he was incapable of such feelings...wasn't he?_, the one true friend that Sherlock Holmes had, slagging him off like that. The rational side of Sherlock told him that John was angry, it was a heat of the moment thing, that it was obvious that he regretted what he said as soon as the words came out of his mouth, but Sherlock wasn't listening to his rational side anymore. He was feeling so many powerful emotions, love, anger, sadness, fear, each one pulling him in the same direction, giving him the same thought '_John, I must find John and tell him that I'm sorry, that he means more to me than any case, any puzzle, anyone.'_

When Sherlock reached the park that he deduced John to be in, he found the one person there he most certainly did _not_ want to see: _Mori-bloody-arty_, sitting at a small table. It was been made up good and proper, with a tablecloth, vase of flowers and two cups of tea.

A devilish smile stretched across his lips, Moriarty motioned to a vacant chair across from him, 'Sherlock! What a pleasant surprise.'

'What do you want?' Sherlock spoke in monotone, already fearing the worst. There was blood on the ground under the table; he could smell it. The grass was messed up, clumps missing, suggesting that something (or someone) had been dragged across it. He dragged his foot along the ground, and felt something. Rectangular, not very big; about 6 or so centimetres wide. A phone. John's phone. _'Oh god. I was too late. They've got John.' _

Rage boiled within Sherlock. He stood up, lent across the table and pulled his gun on Moriarty.

'Tell me where he is.' He struggled to keep his voice level.

Another devilish grin, 'I'm not tell-ling~' His sing-song voice only added to Sherlock's anger.

'I _will_ shoot you.'

'Oh no you won't. Because, I have John. And I will shoot John, if you shoot me.'

'Fuck.'

'You _can_ get him back, if you're lucky.'

'How?'

'Come to my tea party.'

'How do I get there?'

He laughed, 'Follow me.'


	3. Chapter 3: Kidnapped

John Watson was scared. Not that he hadn't been kidnapped before, but this time was different. This time it was much more scary. He knew why he was here, as insurance, to make sure Sherlock stayed in the game. Looking at his surroundings, he almost laughed at how cliché they were. A plain white room, with no furniture at all, except for the pole he was handcuffed to, if that counted. _'How long am I going to be here? If only I hadn't run off on Sherlock like that, we might've been able to fend those brutes off._

'Mr Watson.' For a moment John thought he was going crazy, until he finally noticed the tiny speaker set into the wall directly in front of him.

'What have you done with Sherlock? What are you going to do to me?'

Silence. Cold,dead silence. John's didn't quite know how long for. It was probably only ten or twenty seconds, but it flt like a lifetime. _'Maybe they can't hear me...'_

'Interesting.'

'What?' He asked, evidently puzzled by the statement.

'You ask about Sherlock before you ask about yourself.'

'Just answer my question.' A slight note of anger crept it's way into John's voice.

'Sherlock will be...playing for the foreseeable future. Although, I sincerely doubt he'll win.'

'Rubbish. Sherlock Holmes is better than you'll ever be!'

More silence. The mysterious voice was clearly waiting for him to say something else.

'Well...what if he doesn't win? What if he loses?'

'He dies. And so do you.'

'Oh god.'

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><p><em>'I'm never going to see him again, and the last thing I ever said to him was that he was a "selfish, sociopathic bastard." Shit. Shitty, shit, shit. '<em>

Meanwhile, Sherlock and Moriarty were sitting in a car. Sherlock wasn't quite sure where they were going, as the windows were tinted, but he figured it would be some remote location. '_Maybe John will be here_, he thought. '_Maybe John will be here and we can run away.'_

Not likely.

'What does this 'tea party' involve?' Sherlock broke the silence with his question, not that he thought for a second that it would be answered.

'You'll find out soon, we're here.' Moriarty answered; a creepy grin plastered to his face, as per usual.

'I don't like you playing games with me.' Sherlock was fiddling with the buttons on his coat, his voice in monotone. _ Not when John is involved. Not when his life is at stake._

'Life is a game Sherlock, just a game. Stop excluding yourself. Play, for once, play, just like everyone else.'

Sherlock remained silent as they entered a...garage of some sort. Yes. It must've been a garage, Moriarty wouldn't park his cars just anywhere. The windows were tinted though, so he had no idea of what would await him as soon as he stepped out of the vehicle.

The garage was empty and dull. Just a bit like Moriarty then. Sherlock struggled not to laugh at this, although he wasn't quite sure why. Maybe it was a nervous thing. Moriarty led him to a door and stood beside it, obviously expecting him to open it.

'Go on, Sherlock.'

He took a deep breath, and opened the door.

The first smile he'd had in hours began to form on his face, and tears began to blur his vision.

Tied to a pole, on the other side of the door, was John Watson.

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><p>'John! Are you ok? Did they hurt you? They didn't did they? I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please, forgive me...please...I...'<p>

'It's ok Sherlock, really. I'm fine.'

'No you're not.' Sherlock indicated a gash on John's cheek.

'It's not that bad; I didn't even notice it.'

'I...I just I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let you go out on your own.'

'Sherlock, don't blame yourself, he would've got me sooner or later.'

'But I could've done something!'

'Hey, you did your best.' John lowered his gaze to the floor, 'I'm the one who should be apologising, for what I called you.'

Sherlock tensed slightly at that statement. 'No, you were...you were right.'

'Sherlock! You might be a sociopath, but I was totally wrong to call you selfish, and a bastard.'

'I don't mind, John. People call me names all the time.'

'But you did mind, didn't you. You don't have to be the world's only consulting detective to tell you were hurt by what I said.'

'You know me too well.' He said it almost as if he resented John for knowing.

'Don't say that, Sherlock. You know I care about you.'

'Boys, boys. I rather think that's enough of a reunion, don't you?' Moriarty was standing on the other side of the room, his arms crossed.'Let's go Sherlock! We have a game to play.'

'Bu-But... he only just got here...' John begged. He didn't want to see Sherlock go so soon.

'Oh, don't worry, you'll get to see him soon enough, as long as he tries hard enough, not that he will.'

Sherlock brought his attention back to John, 'I promise, I won't let him beat me, no matter what he has planned.'

John closed his eyes fir a moment, then opened them again. 'Good luck.'

Sherlock scoffed. 'Please, _I_ don't need luck.'

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><p>Sherlock and Moriarty were sitting at a table, not much different from the one at the park. All Sherlock could think about was John. He was scared about the game he was about to play, mainly because John was at stake. He didn't want to lose him.<p>

No, he thought, no... he _couldn't _lose him.

That would be disastrous.

'Sorry to interrupt your little day-dream, but I am ever so eager to start.'

'Oh, er, right.'

'This game will be a battle of the wits, if you'll forgive the cliché.' Sherlock remained motionless, his eyes fixed on the man sitting opposite him. 'You will try to escape this warehouse. You have as long as you like, unless you want your precious John of course, in which case you have...30 hours.'

'A time limit, really now? You do know that's only a cheap trick to make things more exciting.'

'You would rather that it be boring?'

'Perhaps.'

'Says the man who will do anything to avert boredom.'

'Psh, I could think of better things to be doing than this...game.'

'Tea-party.'

'What?'

'It's a tea-party.'

'How exactly? Escaping a warehouse isn't exactly very tea-party like, is it?'

'Mr Holmes, you will find out in time. Have patience.'

'Fine. When do I start?'

He glanced at his watch. 'Now. Your time starts...10...9...8...7...6...5...4...3...2...1...Go. Have fun Sherlock~!'

_'How can I have fun? If I screw this up, I die and so does John.'  
><em>

Sherlock Holmes stood up, with a dramatic flair of his coat, and stepped through the door.


	4. Chapter 4: Welcome to Chaos

I'm back! I really apologise for not posting anything lately, but I was on holidays, and all the computers I had access to sucked. Really badly. But now I'm back I'll start posting every two days or so :D

PLEASE ENJOY~~~~

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><p>When Sherlock stepped through the door into what was surely going to be the most dangerous game of his life, He was rather disappointed. <em>'Really?' <em>He thought, _'A recreation of an abandoned town? How cliché, how...boring.' _He'd expected more from Moriarty. This place reminded him of those B-grade horror movies John sometimes made him watch, the ones with the stupid people who could never tell when the zombies or whatever were right behind them.

Just as Sherlock was about to explore, he heard an intercom or similar device being switched on, and a throat being cleared.

_'Hi again Sherlock! Welcome to chaos, the first stage of my little game. Your task is to escape this town. Have fun, and don't be late!' _

Sherlock inwardly groaned at Moriarty's annoying sing-song tone. It never ceased to annoy him. One thing bugged him though,

_'Why chaos? He wouldn't call it that if there was no reason to, and this place doesn't seem to chaotic.' _

Sherlock took in his surroundings quickly and efficiently. There wasn't very much. A small street consisting of about 5 buildings (A small shop, a cafe and three houses.) and a small park. The whole thing was rather detailed and intricate. A lot of work had been put into making it look realistic, there were windows smashed, wrecked cars, even a tumble weed. Rather comical, really.

Sherlock quickly stopped that train o though. There was no time for mucking around here, for he had only four hours, and this was only the first stage. He briefly wondered how many stages there would be as he walked along the deserted 'streets'. He decided to start with the small shop in his right, as the distinct odour of blood that ran throughout the whole town seemed strongest there.

The shop itself was rather ordinary and boring. The corpse pinned to the wall by a knife sticking through it's chest was rather more alarming though. The body was so mutilated that it was hard to tell who exactly it was. Blood dripped from the many wounds on the victim's body. There was blood everywhere, on the wall, on the floor. The person had obviously been alive when they were pinned to the wall, due to the ridiculously large amount of blood and abundance bloody handprints on the wall.

Sherlock stared at the terribly disfigured face, seeing if he could recognise the person.

_'Not that it would be anyone I would know, just a random...wait...no...short. Tanned. Blond. Muscular. No! No! NO! Not John, John is what I'm playing for...it's not John, it can't be...' _

'John...' Sherlock stared at the face, trying to figure out if it was John or not. The rational side of him was trying to tell him something, but it just wasn't getting through.

Sherlock had to settle for scanning to whole body. He knew something was amiss, but his emotions had the better of him. Somewhere, a part of him knew it was probably a trap, but he'd stopped listening to that part of himself as soon as he stepped into the shop.

It was impossible to tell from the face...he was the right height...he was wearing John's clothes...the exact same clothes John was wearing that day. _'Not John. Not John. Definitely not John. Never John. He must've taken John's clothes and...' _

_Step...Step...Step..._

Something caught Sherlock's eye. Something on 'John's' ankle. A birthmark. A birth mark that John didn't have. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. Not John. That was good. Brilliant.

But then the rational part of him kicked in again. He quickly realised what he knew he should of long ago; this was obviously a trap.

_Step...Step...Step...Step...Step..._

Sherlock froze. _'Shit,' _ was all he could think, before he made the snap decision to go through a door into the building next door.

_'Right. The apartment of the shop-keeper. Lovely. I need a weapon...kitchen; knife.' _Sherlock dashed into the kitchen and grabbed two knives. He hid the smaller one in his pocket and brandished the large one. He knew it was only a matter of time before he was found...

Sherlock heard the sound of a door creaking, and he knew he had company.

Coughs and splutters came from the next room. Sherlock carefully opened the door and dashed in there, hoping to surprise the other person. Much to his shock, it was a radio. A simple, two-way radio. Not an axe murderer, a radio. Bloody hell.

'What? That's just...cheating.' Sherlock thought aloud, a massive scowl on his face. _'Oh my god, it was a radio. I'm so stupid. I was scared by a radio. A RADIO. Mental note: NEVER mention this to Mycroft, or John, or Lestrade, or Anderson or any of the other tossers at Scotland Yard. Ever.'_

The radio was fairly new, and as Sherlock approached it, a voice began to come through.

_'Sherlock, are you listening? Do pay attention. I expected more from you.' _It was Moriarty, without a doubt. He could practically _hear_ the smirk in Moriarty's voice, if that was even possible.

'Yes. I'm here.'

_'I have someone who wants to speak to you.'_

Sherlock coughed and waited for that person to come on.

_'Sherlock...It's me...' _John's voice was fainter than usual, but still no less recognisable.

'John.' Sherlock's attempt to keep his voice level failed. 'Are you ok?' In hindsight, that was probably a pretty stupid question. It was totally obvious that Moriarty was totally going to be giving him bubble baths, and massages and all-you-can-eat buffets. _Totally. _

_'I'm fine at the...moment. I will...continue to be...fine as long as you play...the game.' _The unnatural pauses in John's speech made Sherlock realise he was being fed lines (albeit quite badly) by Moriarty.

'Anything else you wanted to say? You're wasting my precious time, Moriarty.' Sherlock didn't have time for petty distractions. He needed to get out of here fast, so he could get John.

_'You can see my hands, Sherlock, or at least my face.'_

And then the radio went dead, an eerie silence filling the room once more.

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><p>Ehehe. I hope you enjoyed that...please review if you did. I really do appreciate everyone who faved and alerted the story, but reviews make me smile, and motivate me to write more.<p>

See you soon, with chapter five!


	5. Chapter 5

As soon as Sherlock processed those words, his mind was racing. It didn't really take him that long to solve the puzzle.

_'Hmph. Blatantly obvious. What else (that I've seen so far) has both hands and a face? Some dolls, perhaps, but no...the 'made-up-shopkeeper' was clearly old, obvious from the prime position the radio held in the room; no young person would have that there, and also a man (the shoes, hats and coats in the entrance). There were also no women's shoes, coats or hats in the entrance, meaning there was no woman about the house. Therefore; single man, who most certainly does not have dolls in his house. So, the only other likely alternative is a clock.'_

Sherlock didn't bother to verbalise his thoughts as he usually would; there was no John here, no John here to tell him how fantastic he was. Sherlock could've sworn he felt a rather large amount of sadness come over him as he thought of John. Not that that was real sadness of course. He was clearly just missing John's compliments and general usefulness. Definitely not missing anything else. Absolutely not. Never.

Or was he?

_'No, of course I'm not. And besides, I need to get back to the job at hand, finding John Watson.'_

Sherlock strode over to the grandfather clock in the end of the hallway and started looking for a way to find whatever it was he was supposed to find. He tried opening the front, but it was disappointingly lacking in clues of any kind. Then he reached around the back; also lacking in clues. He even tried above and below the clock, both of which were just as fruitless as the rest of the clock. He thought back to the riddle he was given_ 'You can see my hands, Sherlock, or at least my face.'_

Sherlock ran his hands over the front of the clock searching for a clue, another riddle, anything. When his hands ghosted over the centre of the clock, where the hands were attached, he felt that the pin holding them in place was loose. Sherlock pulled it out and glimpsed a scrap of rolled up paper. He pulled the hands off to get at it, unrolled it and began to read it.

_'Congratulations on solving my little riddle, Sherlock! You'll find the key to open the door in the next building. Ta-ta!'_

As soon as he finished reading this, Sherlock was worried.

_'This is wrong. It's too easy. Far too easy. There's a trap in that next building, there has to be, but...what choice do I have? The only thing I can do is make sure that I am as best prepared for this 'trap' as I can possibly be.' _

Sherlock decided to do a quick search of the house to see if he could find anything that had the remote possibility of helping him.

There wasn't much. A knife from the kitchen, a razor blade from the bathroom and a walking stick from the hallway.

_'Oh well, these things will do me well enough, It's not like Moriarty would've left anything around that would make it too easy for me.'_

Before Sherlock left for the building next door, he noticed something on the scrap of paper. The front was not the only side that held a message, the back too.

_'Oh, and by the way, John says hi. Well, he would say hi if he wasn't bound, gagged and being...reprimanded right now.'_

Sherlock felt the rage bubble up from inside of him as he took his anger out on the piece of paper, tearing it into tiny shreds.

_'Oh god. John. Not John. He can't...he can't be made to suffer like this. I don't care if it was just a light slap across the face, Moriarty will pay for whatever he's done to John. He will pay in blood.'_

Sherlock opened the door and walked out onto the street, so caught up in his vengeful thoughts that he didn't notice the tripwire.

He scarcely had time to throw himself to the floor, when there was a large, fiery explosion which reminded him of the pool far too much, and then everything went dark.

When Sherlock finally woke up, his whole body hurt. His head hurt, his chest hurt, his arms hurt and his legs hurt. He was surrounded by smoke and rubble; the explosion was extremely strong.

_'How...how didn't I notice the tripwire? It should have been so obvious! I shouldn't have even had to think about it...How could I have been so stupid? John's life is at stake here...I could have died. Then what hope would he have? Moriarty said that if I didn't attend his 'tea party' then John would die. I...I must focus.'_

Sherlock stood up off the ground and surveyed the damage, both to the 'town' and himself. He had acquired too many bruises and scratches to count and a few deeper cuts that were bleeding, but nothing too bad. The 'town' had faired much worse. In fact, Sherlock was amazed that the warehouse that contained it had not been damaged. The building he was supposed to find the key in had been the source of the explosion.

Sherlock was pondering what to do next when Moriarty's voice came booming out from the (extremely well hidden) P.A system.

_'Well, well, well. I expected more from you, Sherlock. You should know better than to get caught up in your thoughts like that. Maybe you're not quite as good as I thought you were...maybe John Watson won't survive this after all? Just when I'd begun to think that I could have an equal. Oh well, enough of my babbling on, you better find that key! And quickly too...because I do believe my dear little puppies are hungry.'_

Sherlock sighed and began to dig through the rubble. _'I was so stupid. More stupid than I've ever been in my whole life. This is costing me precious time...' _He glanced at his watch. It was two hours and a half, almost three hours since he began. _'God help me. God help John.' _

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was still digging through the rubble. He felt like he'd been doing it forever. His fingers were bleeding and his fingernails (or what was left of them) were ragged.

_'I might as well give up. I'm never going to find this stupid key. Ever. Stupid fucking Moriarty and his stupid fucking games. Fuck.'_

Something shiny had caught Sherlock's eye. He tugged at it, but it wouldn't budge. Not at all.

He cursed some more, then he heard the dogs.

Ten big, scary dogs were currently charging towards Sherlock Holmes.

He tugged the key even harder.

The dogs got even closer.

He put everything he had left into pulling the key from the rubble. He focused his thoughts; what was usually multiple trains of purely logical thought, was now one, completely irrational thought.

_'This is for John. This is John Watson's only hope.'_

And then the key was in his hands and he was running, as fast as his legs would take him, leaping over rubble in a desperate attempt to get away from the dogs. As hard as he tried, they were catching up to him. He knew it wasn't long before they caught him.

The dogs were right behind Sherlock now, his pants were ripped and he could swear he could feel their breath on the back of his exposed ankles.

_'I've come this far, I can make it the rest of the way...'_

Sherlock had never been very good at reassuring himself, and this was no exception.

He was convinced he was going to die.

And then he saw the door.

Sherlock Holmes had never run faster in his life, and he probably never would. Those last 20 meters, his chest was burning, his legs were aching but he kept going.

A wave of relief washed over him as his hands touched the smooth, cold metal of the door. He pushed the key into the lock, just as the dogs began sinking their teeth into him.

He eventually managed to shake off the dogs, but not before his legs were covered in bites, his pants soaked in blood.

Sherlock Holmes smiled, _'One down, three to go.'_

He shut the door.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock pressed himself up against the cold, metal of the door as he caught his breath.

'I made it...I MADE IT!' Sherlock, despite being rather short of breath, was somehow able to proclaim his victory.

_'Well done Sherlock. I'm quite surprised that you managed to outrun those dogs for so long. But this is only going to get harder. That first stage was...a purposely easy introduction to my little game. But do not expect the rest of this to be easy. Not at all.'_

The voice was gone almost as soon as it arrived. Sherlock was alone in the dark, empty room, again.

Then the lights switched on.

Sherlock looked around the room. It appeared to be nothing more than a plain old warehouse, but he knew there must be something more than that.

_**BANG! BANG! BANG!** _

'Shit!' Sherlock swore.

**_BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!_**

Sherlock was looking around desperately for the source of the gunshots.

**_BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!_**

He noticed a thinly disguised door set into the wall at the opposite end of the room.

**_BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!_**

Sherlock pushed the door open.

There was a man with a gun in the centre of the room.

John.

John with a gun in the centre of the room.

_'All my christmases have come at once.'_

* * *

><p>'John!' Sherlock ran towards him, a smile plastered over his face.<p>

'Sherlock...I...' He wrapped his arms around him.

'John, I'm so sorry...I'm...so stupid...' He pressed his face into the top of the shorter man's head.

'Sherlock. I have to finish this.'

'Finish what?'

'These triangles'

'Triangles?'

John pointed at the gunshots in the wall. He produced a can of spray paint and began making lines between gunshots.

'Oh. Right.'

'Sherlock...I need to go. Moriarty will be waiting.'

'Errr...right. Of course.'

John was walking to the door when he felt Sherlock's ridiculously long arms wrap around him.

'Be safe, John.'

'I will. I promise.' John spun around in Sherlock's arms and stared into those sweet, moonstone eyes.

'J-John...'

'Sssssh.' John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, and brought his face closer, ghosted his lips over the detective's.

When Sherlock pulled abruptly away, John had to admit that he was rather concerned that Sherlock hadn't enjoyed their almost-kiss. But when he saw the consulting detective flash him a quick smile (one of his real, genuine smiles, not just one of the ones he flashed to get people to do his bidding), all worry fled from his body.

Until he realised why Sherlock had pulled away.

Moriarty.

Moriarty was standing in the doorway, sporting his trademark grin.

'Boys, boys, boys...Break it up!'

'Jealous?' Sherlock teased.

'I believe you're done here, John. Let's go.' He pulled a gun, 'Not that I really need this...do I?'

John remained defiant. He didn't really fancy leaving Sherlock now.

Sherlock mumbled into John's hair, 'Go, John. Look after yourself.'

'Come on! I don't have all day!'

* * *

><p>And just as soon as he arrived, John was gone.<p>

Again.

Sherlock was cold and alone.

Again.

Sherlock's gaze drifted towards the triangles. The three points were marked by bullet holes, and connected by spray-painted yellow lines.

_'What could this possibly mean? Triangles...there's eight of them...but nothing else really stands out...there must be a reason they're there. Oh well, time's a ticking, must figure out how to escape this place.'_

Sherlock strode over to the door that both John and Moriarty had used to exit. It was locked, obviously, but there was a small note tucked behind the door handle:

**_'This stage is rather different to the last one you faced. Here you will be tasked with escaping this set of rooms. To escape you must solve each puzzle I set for you. The first puzzle you are tasked to solve is on that very wall there. The answer is derived from eight triangles. Hint: Try halving them.'_**

Sherlock scoffed. Half of eight triangles? Hardly challenging for a six year old, let alone the world's only consulting detective.

'Half of eight is four, half of a triangle is 1.5' He announced his answer.

_'Wrong!' _Came the phantom voice from above.

'Fine then! Eight triangles, eight times three equals twenty-four, twenty-four halved equals twelve.'

_'Wrong again! Really, Shirley, you're clutching at straws here.'_

'Then...what could...'

_'Think. You're going about the entirely the wrong way'_

* * *

><p>Sherlock really, really wanted some nicotine patches right now. This was definitely at two-patch problem. Or three. Or four. Or ten. Anyway, it didn't matter. He needed to solve this and he needed to solve this now.<p>

But what exactly was the right way to go about it?

_'Well, since you seem to be having SO much trouble with this, why don't we try another puzzle, if you're SO thick. Honestly, I expected more of you.'_

As difficult as it was, Sherlock somehow managed to restrain his anger.

Somehow.

_'Try the puzzle in the next room. You can always come back to this one later.'_

_'God. He sounds like a demonic little girl. I wonder if anyone's ever told him that?' _Sherlock was able to restrain his giggle as he crossed into the next room.

This room was smaller than the last, and contained no obvious signs of a puzzle.

Or did it?

There were what seemed to be...dots and dashes scrawled across the walls, but he could barely make them out.

_'What I need,' _Sherlock concluded, _'Is some way of turning on the lights._

* * *

><p>John was feeling considerably more optimistic about his situation since seeing Sherlock. He'd always believed that Sherlock would be there to rescue him (Horse and shining suit of armour not included), but seeing him alive and well...it meant a lot.<p>

And then there was their almost-kiss.

That, John thought, was the best kiss he'd ever had. Even though it wasn't really a proper kiss, not that it mattered. It mattered that he had almost-kissed Sherlock Holmes, and that Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock-Bloody-Holmes seemed to _enjoy _it. _Enjoy_. Properly, truly enjoy.

_'God help me. I'm getting more obsessed with the man than Moriarty is.'_


End file.
